


Vice-President's Pet

by orphan_account



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:04:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1444504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meechum gets teased and learns what other Agents have done before him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Ooh, look at Pretty Boy!” shouted Agent Ramirez, hooting with laughter against Agent Smitt, who whistled. 

“Lookin’ a little sore there, Meechum! I got one of them special cushions you can use! Make that poor, worn out ass of yours feel better!”

“Ramirez! Smitt!” barked Agent Rockland from the newly opened door. “Do a perimeter check. A full one, on the double!”

“All four blocks, Sir?” whined Ramirez.

“No. Make that eight. GO! Meechum, come with me.”

The Agent in charge marched to his ‘office’, a repurposed walk-in closet in the Underwood’s basement.  
“Shut the door.”

Pale, Meechum obeyed, taking a seat opposite his commander. “Sir, the Vice-President and I…”

“Save it,” snapped Rockland. But the senior officer’s face relaxed as he took a deep breath; in a minute his scowl had turned to a gentle smile. “I know what you’re doing with the Underwoods. And that’s fine.”

Meechum’s jaw dropped. “Fine, Sir?”

Now Rockland laughed, not at Meechum but as one comrade to another. “You are so good at your job, Edward, that sometimes I forget that you skipped the Academy. There’s a lot to being a Secret Service Agent, a lot that’s not in any training manual. Ramirez and Smitt are just jealous because you’re the Vice President’s pet.

Rockland’s hands fiddled on his desk, spinning a pen as he gathered his thoughts. “A pet. A special one. Not necessarily a lover but, yeah, that’s usually how it works out. That’s how it worked for me and President Turner.”

President Turner had been President Walker’s predecessor, a stalwart Republican who had served two terms.

“President Turner was gay?” Meechum thought of the First Lady, so full-figured and luscious and vixen-like.

Rockland laughed. “No. But neither am I – it’s the power that attracts us to them, Meechum. Though if you start off liking cock I supposed that helps. But in your case, you’ve got the two of them.” He paused then winked. “Nice!”

“They both….” Meechum couldn’t speak, only blushing.

“That’s a definite asset. Hell, I’d be retired down in Texas with Turner if his damned wife was game. But no, she’d have fucking kittens if she found her dear, Christian husband slipping it to me,” Rockland said, looking suddenly quite sad. “So here I am. And here you are, the Vice-President and his wife’s pet. If the other agents keep teasing you, just ignore it. Smile and look satisfied. Very satisfied. Their teasing will stop soon enough. Just watch your back – there’s bound to be another young stud jockeying to take your place.” Rockland leaned forward. “And between you and me, if Underwood ever wants to be double-teamed, let me know. I wouldn’t mind a piece of that.”

Meechum nodded. But he had no intention of sharing. What he and Francis and Claire had together was special. Wasn’t it?


	2. Chapter 2

Francis Underwood didn’t need an appointment to visit his own house, damn it, but he picked up his phone and dialed Meechum’s number. The man was living in the townhouse now, taking care of it now that the Underwoods had ascended to the White bouse. It was Edward’s day off, too, and that’s part of what was bothering the President. What if Edward has someone over? He has a right to his days off, just like anyone else and it wasn’t like they’d given the guy a promise ring or anything. Sighing, he dialed the number from memory. “Edward?” He _was_ Francis Underwood, after all, and didn’t feel the need to identify himself.

“Mr. President?” replied Edward affably.

“There are still a number of files upstairs. I’d like to work on them this afternoon…that is, if I won’t be intruding…”

“No, Sir.” Edward laughed, almost bitterly? “I mean, yes, Sir. Come on over. I’m in the back yard.” click.

Francis stared at the phone. So Meechum’s grown a pair of balls.” He didn’t know whether to laugh or cheer the little bugger on. He barked a stream of directions and the limousine turned towards Georgetown, towards home.

*

“Stay outside. I’ll be fine,” Francis assured the Secret Agent in charge of the day’s watch. He didn’t know the fellow’s name. It hardly seemed to matter. None mattered but Edward Meechum. He walked through the house, which seemed so empty now. Even after a few months in the White House, homesickness hit him hard, in the gut. It had been so much easier before. Taking the stairs two at a time, he hit the basement and slowed down as he reached the back door; no need to broadcast his anxiousness. It had been three weeks since his birthday. Three weeks since that memorable ‘party’ Claire and Edward had given him. No touches or stolen kisses from the slender, dark lover. Francis had to content himself with the occasional heart-felt glances, exchanged when no one else was near, a rarity these days.

Edward was shirtless. Francis stopped cold to stare at the smooth muscles of the former Marine’s back. He was wearing only an ancient pair of jeans, pale blue and full of rips and paint stains. Edward must have been bulkier when the jeans were purchased – the pants gathered low on his hips, exposing an inch or two of ass as the man leaned over to dig in the flower bed.

“Hey.”

Edward didn’t look up. “Sir.”

The ivy on the walls was trimmed and the plants that had died over the harsh winter were bagged, waiting to be dragged to the curb. The flowerpots, every one of them, were full of growing things, though Francis couldn’t say just what. His parents had been the farmers, not him. So he pulled up one of the patio chairs and settled back to watch.

“Don’t you have paperwork to do?” asked the younger man, his face turned down, his eyes not meeting the President’s. Francis pushed out of the chair, hesitating. What was going on? Was Edward angry? And why? He could just sit there and admire Meechum’s loveliness without another word or go inside and shuffle through his stored files. But that didn’t solve things, did it? He leaned forward and placed a tentative hand flat against Edward’s sweaty, dusty back.

“Talk to me?” he asked, his voice thick and filled with tenderness.


	3. Chapter 3

The agent pointed towards the flowerpots. “Lavender, poppy, echinacea, mint. Perennials, if you remember to water and feed them.” He stood up, stretching his shoulders before leaning down to grab the garden hose coiled at his feet. He began to soak the pots.

“If **_I_** remember to feed and water them? Are you going somewhere?” asked Francis, clearly worried.

Edward shrugged. “I found out from Rockland what I am, Sir, and pets are _replacable_.”

“What the blazes are you talking about?” snapped Francis, letting his anger peep through his normally smooth façade. The water hit the slate blocks of the small, enclosed backyard. It smelled like rain.

“Agent Rockland explained it to me. Most Presidents and Vice Presidents have had their pet agent. Someone hang out with and who’ll help them blow off steam. You know…” He made a gesture with a closed fist, the universal symbol for jerking off. “He said most of them were straight, politicians and their pet agents. It’s a power thing. But that’s not what I want, Sir.”

“I’ll need to have a talk with Agent Rockland. Oh,I’d heard rumors, of course, about certain presidents and their paramours but I’ve never heard this… _tradition_. Pets? Of all the nerve,” he said angrily, almost spitting. “Edward Meechum, I’ve never considered you a pet and neither has Claire. We’ve only shared one lover in the twenty five years of our marriage.  One. And when that ended, our friendship with him didn’t.”

“Who?”

Francis looked at his fee. “Doug. It went on for almost a year. It stopped when he found his sobriety. And yes, you coming along has been very convenient for Claire and me. We can’t pursue any ‘side interests’ like we might have once. But we are your's, convenient or not! Hell, I wanted you the first time I lay eyes on you!”

Edward snorted.

“What?” asked Francis.

“I did, too. Your ass, Sir…”

Francis laughed. “I see!” But his face grew solemn again. “Edward, I’m not saying I know where this will end any more than every other area of my life but Claire and I don’t treat this thing we have together lightly. Not one bit. But hell, you and I haven’t even had a fight yet unless you count this. How do you know you’ll still want me when you’ve had a chance to see what it’s like to suffer my temper.”

Edward released the grip on the hose’s nozzle. “You've been mad, once or twice.  And I’ve been angry at you before, Sir. I’m not like Steve. I don’t hold you two on pedestals.” He coughed. “At least, not high ones.”

The President’s eyes narrowed. “When have you been angry with me?”

“When I realized that the person who threw the brick was Doug Stamper, for one.”

“When did you figure that out?” gaped Francis, clearly impressed. Edward’s smile was boyish and gorgeous.

“In the split second between sighting him and pulling the trigger – long enough to adjust my aim towards the ground. I’m the finest shot in the department, Sir. You’re damned lucky I didn’t kill him!”

He lifted a bare foot and turned the hose back on, washing away the dust and bits of leaves. Then he cleaned the other.

“Damn,” was all the President could manage, staring at his lover with renewed respect.

“Mmm-hmm,” agreed Edward.

“Help me out, would you?” He handed the hose to Francis. “Spray me?”

Edward turned around, raising his arms shoulder high. The water sluiced the dust streaked by droplets of sweat, cooling the sun-reddened skin of the shirtless man. “Turn around,” whispered Francis. Edward moaned as the water sprayed against his chest and neck, washing him clean. He bent at the waist, leaning against his knees so that Francis could rinse his sweat-clumped hair.

Francis suddenly was drawn back to the past, to a memory of watching the famous thoroughbred, Secretariat, being washed after winning the Kentucky Derby; the steam rising from hot skin and bunching muscles… He shut off the hose and took Edward’s hand. “Let’s go inside.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally had an idea for more! By the way, I suppose I should probably change the title of this story to 'President's Pet', since Francis isn't Vice President for very long. I hope you enjoy this long overdue continuation. More to come.

The basement was cool and dark; Francis could hear the hum of the air condition breaking the otherwise silent house. That, and Edward’s breath, strained as he closed the door behind them.

“What’s wrong, Edward?”

Edward shakes bits of grass and leaves from his his t-shirt, staring at it instead of the President. Deciding not to put it back on, he throws it into an open hamper across the room once occupied by a dozen of his peers. _When Francis and Claire lived here_ , thinks the Secret Service Agent with a pang bordering on despair. The house seems haunted by those two, so much so that Edward now ventures upstairs only for perimeter checks. The basement is good enough, he supposes. There’s a bed, full-sized, in the closet that once functioned as Agent Rockland’s office; most nights Edward sleeps on the leather sofa, the one Francis used to sit upon when playing video games so long ago.

He sits down at one end, silently bidding Francis to follow. Francis settles into the sofa’s opposite corner, one cushion and miles apart.

“I don’t want to be your pet. I want more.”

“What makes you think that you don’t have it?” Francis asks, sincerely puzzled. His hand, the one with the golden emblem of the Sentinel, glides along the top, hesitating, not touching Edward’s bare shoulder. “Claire and I have never thought of you like that. You mean so much to us, so very, very much.”

Edward thaws but remains far from satisfied. “We barely talk.”

Francis laughs, deep and low, tugging something deep inside of Edward. “We talk all the time.”

“About schedules, Sir,” huffs Edward, arms folding defensively across his chest. “Maybe the weather or the Washington Senator’s chances for the pennant. Nothing important.”

“You can’t expect pillow talk from me, not in the Oval Office or next to me in an armored car with two other agents,” Francis argues. “And you’ve seen how busy I’ve been. Hell, the election is coming up and Doug is still down for the count.”

“There. We can talk about Doug.”

“Doug?” The President looks perplexed.

Edward nods. “Doug. We can talk about how remarkable it was that he was found alive, much less the fact that he’s mostly recovered, except for," Edward pauses, staring sadly at anything other than the President, "The drinking.”

“True. If that man hadn’t been walking his dog…” agrees Francis, loathe to mention his friend's fall from sobriety.

“And how strange was it that someone so small could practically kill a man like Doug, a tough guy though you wouldn’t know it by looking at him.”

Francis’s fingertips finally trace warm skin. “Well, they never did find the carjacker…”

Now Edward really laughs, bitterly and at the President’s expense. “Please don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“I know it was Rachel Posner, Francis.”

The President drawls one wary word. “ _How_?”

“You mean…” Edward shakes his head. “I thought you were better than that. I'm not a fucking lamp, Francis,” snaps Edward. "I’m not stupid. I want to help. " 

The President exhales slowly, taking off his watch and cufflinks, one by one, depositing them carefully on the battered coffee table in front of them. He silently unbuttons his bespoke shirt while Edward watches. His undershirt, as tight across the chest and belly as always, comes off next so that he’s as bare as his companion.

“Kiss my neck, Edward,” he commands, chasing it with a very gently, breathy, “Please?”

“Is this some sort of trick?”

“No.”

“Are you trying to change the subject?”

“Yes. For now, just a little while. Please?” Francis slides to the center of the sofa, tilting his head so that the left side of his neck is exposed.

Edward hesitates. He loves necks, loves kissing them, gets off in a big way from holding his partner in place with a tight grip, sucking and nipping delicate skin while they squirm and wiggle in his lap. He always lets go when asked; he’s not cruel and he does his very best not to leave a mark. “I might…”

Francis interrupts, insinuating himself even closer while risking a broad hand on the inside of Edward’s thigh. “Try not to leave a hickey,” he chuckles. “But if you do, I’ll tell everyone it was Claire.”

Edward snorts, laughing against the tender spot just beneath Francis’ jaw. The President tastes salty and warm and ready.

“Jesus, Edward, what you do to me,” gasps Francis. He picks up a knee, moving over Edward’s legs until he’s seated, groin brushing groin as Edward licks lower, just beneath where Francis’s shirt collar would have stood. His lips rearrange into a circle and he creates a seal, sucking hard enough to raise a small, purple welt. Edward dips down lower, near Francis’s collar bone, his hands busy unbuckling the President’s belt.

He needs this. They both do.


End file.
